memory
The public celebrates Natasha.
Clint laughs at the statues they build, at the wakes they hold. He scoffs at the businessmen and politicians who say that they owe her their lives.
Fuck yeah you do, he thinks, chucking a plum at the TV screen.
He thinks of the hundreds of Shield agents who called Tasha a commie behind her back, the ones who whispered that she was a traitor, a spy, a killer, a mercenary without mercy. The ones who looked at him as if he’d painted a target on his back, just by happening to see something in a girl brainwashed to kill.
He thinks of the people that praised Captain America but tore Tasha down, calling her a spy, a traitor, a b*tch and a sl*t. He thinks of the men bitching about her being a hero, the right wing cowards too scared to fight themselves, but all too willing to tear down Tasha.
He thinks of how Tasha released her entire record, her crimes, her murders, her darkest nightmares, to the public. For anyone to see.
He thinks of Tasha not caring about anyone but the people she’d sworn to protect. Not caring about the opinions tossed at her, not caring about anything other than keeping people safe.
They call her a hero, they say that she saved billions, and Clint laughs.
Of course she did, he thinks, looking up at her statue. She was always a hero.
After all, there was always a reason Clint chose her in the first place.